You wear your uniform. You lock the door. The door’s light turns green. No chime rings as you walk away. You take a bus and get off at the stop closest to the yards. You didn’t bring any food for lunch: you had none. Guards meet your gaze and hold their rifles to their chest. Delivery people load forklifts; workers walk out of the way.
The lights of the surveillance cameras pulse amber.
You nod to the guard. The guard asks for your card and phone. Both are run through the system and the guard overrides a caution.
The boss appears as you enter: a pause and a smile.
- “Welcome back. We have been waiting so long for you. I am exceedingly glad that you were granted the authority to work here again.”
Who was this? The State did this to daze you. You doubt your judgment. You submit to their dictates.
- “Glad to be back. I am ready to build back this great country: one sewage line at a time.”
- “We are so great, so glorious already. The takeover took care of that. Crushed all those snowflakes. Those weaklings folded when the strong, the few, the brave took charge of this country,” the boss said.
- “No doubt. I am back to serve the nation. What do you have for me to work on?”
- “Well, we will get to that later. Let’s tour the facility to re-acquaint yourself with the surroundings and your colleagues,” the boss said and held your shoulder.
You walk down the floor. You notice fewer metal parts, coils of solder, and torches than before. Workers rearrange late shipments, salvage junk metal, and inspect welded equipment. Only a few workers appear to be welding pipes cordoned from everyone else.
Your co-workers look more than nineteen months older. They wave your way, praise your favorite fighter for its latest fight sport bout, and talk about the good days with praise for how the boss put the floor back online after the latest shortage. You feel that their words are strained but are jealous of the rhythms of their speech. You wanted to get your hand on a torch.
- “No work yet. Feel free to take your time and ease into this new routine. We have your best interests at hand. Why not have a break? Let’s have a coffee. Why don’t we?”
You agree and then walk into a surprise birthday party. For you. A poster of you and your favorite fighter hangs on the wall. Streamers in your favorite color float in the air. Your favorite cake is waiting for you with your favorite foods. How could this be possible? Do they really like me?
- “You thought that we forgot? You are a trusted member of our team. So glad that we can all finally meet in-person without restrictions. Now it is time for you to take your place in our community, your community,” the boss says and shakes your hand.
- “Why, thank you!”
You high-five close associates. You talk about the work that needed to get done and laughed. When have you last laughed? After eating four slices of cake, drinking two sodas, and recounting your trails during the shortages, the boss comes to you. The boss looks at the clock and then to you.
- “Why not leave a little early today?” The boss says and holds your shoulder.
- “I am ready to begin, sir. What station is free for me to work at? A torch?”
- “Not yet. Talk to your friends some more and then you can call it quits for the day.”
You shake the boss’s hand. The meeting at your room fades from your memory. You shut your locker, hover over your teammates, and walk out as they wave. You forgot how wonderful that felt looking at them eye-to-eye and talking without conditions, pretext, or preparation. If only they had the supply, and I could get welding, maybe a stocked fridge could be next.
After the takeover and your separation from your family and friends, after your relocation to a room in a housing complex in an urban area near the yards, and the authorities regulated possessions, actions, and thoughts, you value whatever you had left. The small pleasures of routine were things to cling to after they swept everything else away. Back at work. Oh, yes.
You left from different door. You look back to confirm.
You try to remember where the bus stop was again. You stumble on to a different factory floor. You walk through it and cross to a main road. You notice two guards shove a man against a brick wall.
- “This is an expired contract. Do you think you can fool me with this bull? You serve at our pleasure and permission,” a guard said.
- “Should we extricate this filth or make an example of him?” The second guard said.
- “The authorities want to show that they have rounded up and dealt with these.”
The second guard pulled the contract away from the hands of the first guard.
- “Looks like the contract is good for three more years,” the second guard said.
- “Don’t think I know that? They will take care of it at headquarters. They have no right to be here. We claimed this land at the barrel of the gun. They can deal with the consequences.”
The first guard shoves the man back into the wall, lets him fall, and kicks his stomach. You can hear the groan and the man passes out.
You want to grab the hilt of the guard’s rifle. Were these the same guards that had interrogated you? Does it matter? For all the bonhomie, you forgot your mission. With fear and reassurance, they wanted you to forget that an alternate existence was possible. Their mental games of poison and positivity shatter in a moment—a bullet, an accident, and assault in an alley with brain damage and death in jail. Such oppression lets you know that you are worthless. But what are they? What are they worth? They need the validation of things, pampering, and force. Who created this monster? The government should govern with consent of the people.
As you back away, you notice a figure with a mask. The mask was like the one they ripped off your face outside the library. The figure retreats, but you follow. You make it to an abandoned brick courtyard. The figure slows down and turns toward you.
- “You are the librarian,” you said.
- “Glad you noticed. They tried to sway you, didn’t they?” The librarian said.
- “Didn’t seem all that bad to me: a regular routine, co-workers who care, a fridge full of food.”
- “They cleared your room of all its affects,” the librarian said.
- “What?”
- “I am here to warn you. Are you committed to this path? Are you willing to risk it all? Or do you want to plead with the authorities in jail to get reinstated. That’s if you are spared.”
- “What? No, that can’t be possible,” you said.
- “Your boss tipped them off. He confirmed you had the materials. You put me in jeopardy, but no mind, are you ready to become a dissenter?” The librarian said.
You think back to your last belongings in the incinerator: photographs of your family together, a gift from an old friend, art from contraband videogames, a paperback of haiku, and an old painting of a mountaintop. All your pre-takeover life was consumed by fire. Its digital and physical traces ashes.
Trusting the librarian would mean being a public enemy and ready to be triumphed for laughs in the preliminary rounds before a fight game. But was this life much different?
- “They promise stability but provide none. They promise a life of no fear, but rule by it. They promise inclusion, but chip you away. Your life is their tool. And you accept it because what option is there? You ask. You do not even know of another tomorrow or even another past. If life is resistance, resistance is a path of imagination. I blaze it.”
- “Are these just words? Do you recognize some basics about Japanese letters and how regimes rise and fall? You identified open and closed systems, the public “We” and the private “I,” and the connection of all people into a social psychic whole. Say, democracy returns, would you sit by the television without doing anything at all? And, before that, would you forge such a path to a new tomorrow?”
- “That’s where you will have to bet on me, Librarian. You have given me the education, but it is up to me to express it through action. We have to fire the arrow.”
The librarian turns and walks away from you. You follow and mimic the librarian’s movements through the streets. It is time to escape.